Reality Check
by Clair de Lune - ITML
Summary: What he imagined was the soft sound of the sea and the cozy cabin aboard the Christina Rose; intimacy and all the time in the world; endless caresses and endearments. What he gets... Michael/Sara.


**Reality Check  
Notes:** Initially written for a challenge at foxriver-fics, with the prompt PWP, Michael/Sara and a car. Thanks to Recycled Faery for the beta.

oOo

What he imagined was the soft sound of the sea and the cozy cabin aboard the _Christina Rose;_ intimacy and all the time in the world; endless caresses and endearments.

What he gets is the old sedan backseat and the harsh creaking of leather; Lincoln and Paul fucking Kellerman that may come back any minute now; he's barely in position to reach for and fondles small expanses of naked skin; and instead of sweet words, there is the sound of desperate moans and whispers.

Sara has hastily yanked a leg out of her pants to free herself, her shirt runs high on her chest, and the skin of her stomach is gleaming with sweat. Her knees sink deep into the seat on each side of his hips and with some sort of purr, she arches her back, lifts her arms above her head and grips the headrest below her.

She's showing off: he must admit the sight is quite something, and for a few seconds, he forgets everything he has imagined and hoped. Then, he slides a hand up her bare leg, slips the other under her shirt and lets it wander until he can palm a breast, round and soft under his fingers; the images of perfection come back with a vengeance. It wasn't supposed to happen like this, it was supposed to...

"Stop thinking!" she grinds through her teeth.

"I'm not..."

Not really, anyway. But the facts are the facts, he can't deny them: he's an escaped convict with a half naked woman straddling him, a brother and a hit man likely to walk in on them, in a damn car parked in the damn middle of a damn garage. Someone please tell him how he could not be thinking about...

She slumps on him, tightens around him and, OK, now he understands how he can stop thinking. He gasps and bucks, grabs her hips and thrusts his upwards using every bit of the little leverage he has at his disposal. He can see her grinning between in-takes of air. She's not really entitled to laugh at him, however, because in theory, he has not stop thinking: he's just thinking about something completely different – a way to hold her even closer, to get deeper into her and to hear her pant louder in his ear. Maybe even beg a bit.

She bumps her head on the roof when she rises up on her knees, she bangs her skull on the headrest when she arches backwards and she probably burns her bare knee on the leather when she slouches back on him, hard and fast. She really doesn't seem to care, even though he does, so he gathers her in his arms. He pulls her to him, strokes the small of her back, the nape of her neck. He kisses her throat, her jaw and then her lips; it's a bit messier and dirtier than he's intended to, but obviously, nobody's complaining. She whimpers "Oh God" and "Help me here, Michael" in his mouth, and he's not really teasing her when he asks her what she wants – just too far gone to get it. So she grasps his hand, firmly put it between her thighs and... all right, he's not that dense, he i _does_ /i get it.

She's so soft, taut and nice above him, around him, her skin so smooth, slick and warm beneath his fingers and his lips that he could go on and do that for hours. Petting, stroking, licking, nibbling. Happily. But then she presses herself against him, whispers and dips her tongue into his ear, and he must confess that 'hours' may have been a slight exaggeration – it will be seconds if he's lucky.

He probably said that out loud because she's hissing "Yes" with clear satisfaction and he can feel her panting and clenching and clawing at his shoulders and...

Yeah. Well. Seconds, really.

oOo

They slowly slide to their sides and lay on the seat; he covers her, carefully hiding her from any peering eyes, and they rest for a few moments, motionless and somewhat out of breath.

"They'll be back any minute now," he finally says. It doesn't stop him from kissing her, gliding his tongue against hers, holding her head between his hands, his fingers deep in her hair. No way he stops doing that unless someone grabs him and pulls him away. Forcefully.

"Doors are locked," she lazily answers – and he remembers: not a nice girl.

He has imagined and planned something entirely different.

Doesn't mean he can't appreciate what he unexpectedly gets.

-END-


End file.
